


can't keep my skeletons in

by aayjay



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Comfort, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, mental health discussion?, neuroatypical dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:13:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aayjay/pseuds/aayjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey, it's, uh, <i>me</i>..." And Dean sucks in a breath and sees stars from how badly he needs to breathe. He bites it back. As best as he can, and ends up hiccuping, gulping air like he’s dying from the need of it. "It's, I- I hate you and you hate me but there's- I need you." <i>I need you</i>. Dean's full of stuff he's never admitted before today- I loved you. I need you. God, he might as well just die here.<br/>"Dean." Seth says, and he's not hanging up, and the music goes away and Seth's voice gets clearer. "Are you okay?" It's less a question, more of a confirmation, Dean thinks.<br/>He feels at his weakest when he says, "No."</p>
<p>- Set after Smackdown on August 1st. Trigger warnings for discussion of panic attacks and anxiety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't keep my skeletons in

**Author's Note:**

> title from Slipped by the National. trigger warnings for panic attacks, anxiety, hyperventilation. this fic is set post-"i loved you, seth, you were my brother"

His hands haven't stopped shaking since he got his hands on Seth. His hands won't stop shaking and he's in his hotel room, all alone, no Roman no Seth, no one. Dean can feel it in his blood, like a cloud of white hot anger-fear-betrayal-pain-loneliness seeping in through his pores and clogging his veins, and his hands are shaking because he can't stop it and- and because he touched Rollins tonight. Got his hands on Seth's face and couldn't keep his mouth closed from the sheer _Seth_ of it. Kane coming at him but what did that matter when he had Seth, hot under his fingertips like he'd been so many long nights ago- and Dean would never be able to shake him.  


He’s on the floor. It seemed like the safest place in his current state. This - overwhelming panic that floods his system and chokes the air out of him - isn't new. But it's been a long time since he's been this alone for it- and oh god he's always been alone until there was Seth and there was Roman and there was the Shield and he could, he did, believed in it more than he believed in himself. Dean can't stop his hands from shaking and he presses his palms against the cool tiled floor and tries to breathe. Okay. _Okay_. "Okay." He says it out loud this time, like the sound of his own cracked hoarse voice in the silent room is going to help ground him in his body. It doesn't. "Fuck."  


Roman. Where was Roman? They were- he'd still, if Dean needed him. Dean leans up on his knees, bracing himself so he can fumble for his phone where he'd left it on the counter. Swipes it to the home screen, ignores all the useless shit Seth installed on it for him when he'd got it. His hands are still trembling and his chest is beginning to ache.  


The call goes to voicemail. "Roman’s cell, leave a message..." Dean slams the phone down. Remembers it's a smartphone and angrily taps the end button. It blinks at him. Call ended. Dean growls. His breath catches and suddenly it's like being dunked underwater. He can't fucking _breathe_ , and he gulps in air - inhale, inhale - and exhales it. Can't fucking breathe even though breathing is all he's doing; he knows it doesn't make any goddamn sense. He can't stop, and his hands are shaking, and he can't breathe, so he calls Seth. It's not something he, well, _wants_ to do, but neither is having a panic attack on the floor of a hotel room in Texas. Call Seth. It’s the worst idea he’s had in a long time.  


And if Seth doesn't answer, well -  


He does.  


"Hello?" He sounds like he's shouting, over the sound of, Dean assumes, shitty club music. And maybe like he didn't even check the caller ID, because he doesn't sound like he wants to strangle Dean.  


"Hey, it's, uh, _me_..." And Dean sucks in a breath and sees stars from how badly he needs to breathe. He bites it back. As best as he can, and ends up hiccuping, gulping air like he’s dying from the need of it. "It's, I- I hate you and you hate me but there's- I need you." _I need you_. Dean's full of stuff he's never admitted before today- I loved you. I need you. God, he might as well just die here.  


"Dean." Seth says, and he's not hanging up, and the music goes away and Seth's voice gets clearer. "Are you okay?" It's less a question, more of a confirmation, Dean thinks.  


He feels at his weakest when he says, "No."  


"Okay."  


"Okay." Dean says, and he feels _it_ tearing at the edges of what control he has left. With it, he tells Seth what hotel room he's in and puts the phone down. Not even sure if he hung it up properly.  


Dean buries his shaking hands in his hair, practically curled up on the floor. In his head, he knows- knows Roman told him once "it's all in your head" but that never made sense with him. The utter and overwhelming need to breathe, as much as quickly as he could, coupled with the horror that he _couldn't breathe_ \- how could that be logical? Everything bearing down on him at once and nothing he could do about it, no way to fight his way out of this, no matter how hard he tried. Fighting made it worse, sometimes, like clawing at something he could never, ever reach, and never ever catch.  


His hands might still be shaking, he's not sure, he can't quite feel them, they’re going numb. And his toes, he can't feel them either, and his head is fuzzy and too light, like the gravity’s been fucked up in here, and the edges of his vision are going dizzy and grey. The only sound he can hear is his own breathing - a croaking wheezing as he breathes in and when he breathes out his own voice sounds wrecked and hoarse.  


So, it's fine, he never wanted to die like this, maybe he always figured he'd die in the ring. He _thought_ he died the night Seth- with the chair, and heartbreak like actual pain, which Dean didn't even know was a real thing, but it was, and Seth...  


Seth was here. Almost like Dean had summoned him; but, no, he’d called him, too, hadn’t he? The sight of him should send anger wracking through him, but he couldn't even stand up if he wanted.  


Seth says something - "Shit, Dean" all breathy and annoyed like _he’s_ the one hyperventilating, Dean thinks, annoyed. And he drops to the floor in front of Dean. Like old times. Maybe Dean _is_ dead. Seth takes his hands. They’re still shaking, but Seth seems to have an innate calm that stills him for a second.  


Dean does not look up. He stares at his hands. Seth's hands. He wants to say "fuck you" but his voice catches and he just clutches Seth’s hands tighter.  


"C'mon, Dean. Breathe with me. Remember, baby?"  


Yep, Dean is dead. Must be. "Okay.” he says, instead of ‘so this is hell’, and he breathes. He tries to, anyway, and his voice is barely a whisper, _god_ , he _better_ be dead, letting Seth see him like this, on tonight of all nights. Dean almost feels drunk with all the oxygen going to his head, he wants to say - I loved _you_ , I _love_ you - again but he digs his fingernails into Seth.  


“Focus, Dean.”  


He sounds like Seth, he sounds like the Seth that Dean loved. The Seth that had Dean’s back, the Seth that let him shower first in the mornings, the Seth that kissed him before and after every single match “for luck,” he’d say, and Dean would whisper without taking his mouth away from Seth’s, “screw luck.” Seth would grin, pressing closer. “Then I’m just a sap,” and he'd smile at Dean like nothing else mattered.  


Focus. Focus. Seth’s breathing is exaggerated, his shoulders heave with every inhale and exhale. Dean focuses. Tries to match him but his lungs ache for more. Seth grips his hands. “I said _focus_ , Ambrose.” Seth’s voice is sharper, tinged with something- something else Dean doesn't want to remember. Seth shifts closer, he’s sitting cross-legged, until his knees bump into Dean’s. The contact startles Dean, it’s almost Too Much Seth, even though he’s had more contact with him in the ring than any other place lately. It’s just- that’s exactly it, that’s the ring, and this is it, and this is Seth.  


Dean breathes in. Slowly, like Seth is, and even though his mind is screaming at him, every inch of him protests and screeches against it, he follows Seth on the exhale, too, and then again. And again, and again, until it doesn’t hurt as much, and he can feel Seth’s hands around his. Until he can see straight, and doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out and die here in some shitty hotel room. Seth doesn’t say anything else. Just makes Dean breathe normally.  


After a few minutes of Dean’s even breathing, Seth pulls his hands away. Dean expects him to get up and leave, walk away like anything else, like he always does, but instead he feels Seth’s hands on his face. He looks up, finally.  


“Better?” Seth asks, quietly.  


Dean just nods. Seth’s hands are warm; he smells like… like fancy cologne, and booze, and _Seth_. He thumbs patterns over Dean’s cheekbones, softly. “Good.”  


Dean wants to say; like you _care_ , but Seth- well, Seth showed up, didn’t he, he talked Dean down, he held his hand… and it’s fucking him up. Seth shouldn’t care. Dean shouldn’t have called him.  


(“What would I do without you,” Dean said one morning after a bad episode, he’d spent all night manic and crazed, and Seth had stayed with him, rode it out with him, held his hand and kissed him when he came down. “Go crazy, probably,” Seth had joked, and Dean was glad he’d never have to go that crazy again.)  


‘I miss you,’ he wants to say. He’s definitely gone crazy without Seth. ‘Come back to me,’ he’d say, if he were slightly crazier than he was. ‘Come to bed with me.’ If he still wasn’t pissed as hell. ‘I lied today, I still love you.’ If he didn’t hate Seth so much for making him say that in the first place.  


Just crazy enough to keep holding Seth’s hands, it seemed. Fuck. “Uh, Roman…” Dean’s voice hurts to speak, but he’s not much a quitter in anything. “Didn’t pick up his phone.” He swallows hard against the dry, painful ache in his throat. “I’m, uh…”  


Sorry? He means to say sorry, maybe, even though he doesn’t particularly like saying sorry, but it feels so awkward to be around Seth when he’s not antagonizing him or punching him in the face. Seth pulls away from him, stands up. Dean thinks, that’s it, he’ll leave, story over, thank god- but Seth just hands him a water bottle he got from god knows where. Dean grumbles something as thankfully as he can and sips from it, but at least he can speak again. If he knew what to say.  


Seth sits across from him again. Knees touching. Dean feels like a broken hearted teenager, elated at the mere contact but still hurt, hurt, and hurt. “You sounded bad.”  


Dean finds himself nodding. “I am.” It’s not what he meant to say but he’s pretty good at _saying things_ today, isn’t he?  


Seth just makes this strange humming sound, and asks, “How’s the shoulder?”  


Oh, god, is Seth trying to make small talk? It sends awkward nervous annoyance through Dean’s stomach. He feels like he could stand up, now, so there’s that. “You don’t have to stay, y’know.”  


“I know.” Seth is standing up anyway. Dean stares at Seth’s too-fancy shoes, probably something Hunter’d bought for him to match Orton. Anger pricks at him at the thought of it. It’s better than weak and breathless and panicked, though, so there’s that. Actually, he feels like he might throw up, too, but that’s probably the after-effects of the panic. Or, still the anger. Emotions feel great! Fuck. He bites his bottom lip, sore from earlier when he got hit in the face.  


“I didn’t have to show up here, either.” Seth’s quiet, and he leans in, and if Dean had his eyes closed he wouldn’t have believed it, but Seth kisses his _forehead_ , and then pulls away, and steps back. And Dean _saw it_ , and he hasn’t hallucinated in a good while so it was _probably _real, and he _felt it_ , which was. The worst part, definitely. Seth’s lips, warm, the smell of him so close so briefly but still felt like it could choke Dean. He inhales, sharply, fights back panic and stress and the fucking horrible desperate fear of loneliness that wants to eat him up sometimes. “But it’s you.” Seth murmurs, and Dean thinks he’s going to leave but Seth just settles on the couch and turns the TV on.  
__

Baffled, annoyed, and maybe strangely thankful, Dean tilts his head back till it hits the wall. Seth isn’t leaving. Seth showed up, held Dean’s hands, and wasn’t leaving. He ran his fingertips against the tape around his wrists; he hadn’t even bothered undoing all of it. As soon as the show was over he’d felt off, and practically ran out of there. The tape felt weird on his wrists now, out of place.  


“That new Marvel movie is on pay per view, man. Captain America 2: America Harder, or something.” Seth tells him, and Dean opens his eyes. Seth isn’t looking at him, but the “want to watch it with me” is implied. Dean manages to drag himself off the floor and collapses onto the couch. He still feels wobbly, lightheaded. Glad he doesn’t have a match for a few days. Seth’s close, because the couch is small, it’s hard to avoid him- and then Seth just practically _pulls_ Dean’s head onto his lap, anyway. It’s actually a lot comfier this way, he’s not crowded on one side, and Seth… Seth runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. Caresses him, comforts him.  


Dean murmurs at the soft contact. “Oh.” He gasps, and can’t help himself. It…. it’s nice. He’s not used to nice, lately. He’s not used to anything that’s not anger and pain. “Tonight is so weird.” He whispers. Seth could be a dream, for all he knows. Seth thumbs Dean’s eyebrow, chiding him playfully. “Shh.”  


Dean lays still, half-closes his eyes. If he’s dreaming, he might as well enjoy it. When he hears Seth mumble “here, you doofus” he shifts a little, and Seth reaches down to snag his wrist. Gently, Seth takes off the wrist tape from tonight’s fight, and it’s mildly startling to Dean, because hours ago he’d been hitting Seth with these taped up hands, and now Seth was undoing the tape and kissing the palm of Dean’s hand. Left, then right, and Seth fusses but lets Dean relax after that. “Better.”  


“Better.” Dean echoes. He tries to watch the movie for as long as he can while Seth runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, over his neck, tucking his hair behind his ears and occasionally Seth murmurs something at the movie, or towards Dean, but Dean falls asleep before he can manage to ruin everything.  


In the morning he’s alone. Dean isn’t too hurt, or, god help him, surprised, and still isn’t sure it wasn’t all a dream. But he’s not still panicking on the floor, and Seth’s left a note on the counter, “See you Monday,” with Seth’s scribbly little SR signature and a smiley face. He should crumple it up and throw it away but it feels like the only evidence that last night wasn’t a panic induced hallucination. He tucks it away in his bag, and feels lighter on his feet for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> HA, ha, all I want to talk about is neuroatypical Dean Ambrose, aka "crazy" dean, dean with anxiety, etc, etc. I'm the worst!!!! Thanks to Lucy for being awesome and talking to me about panic attack Dean and also everything else!!! Like for getting me into loving these monsters in the first place!!   
> Follow me on tumblr so YOU, TOO can talk to me about Dean and Seth at gayalienprince.tumblr.com, and also let me know if this needs more warning or anything. thanks for reading!!!


End file.
